


when is a monster not a monster

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:57:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4347827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t need anything – not anymore, not when she feeds on the power within her, not when the world around is dull, grey. She doesn’t need anything, but magic always comes with a price.<br/>Who is she to step on tradition?</p>
            </blockquote>





	when is a monster not a monster

The first time it happens, she doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t not mean it, either, smiling sweetly at the farmer in front of her, his crops burnt by the sun and drought. He quivers in his boots, not daring to look at her in the eyes – a wise choice if he ever made any – as he begs her for help, for mercy, pity.

“What shall you give me in return?” she asks, head high and voice cold.

She doesn’t need anything – not anymore, not when she feeds on the power within her, not when the world around is dull, grey. She doesn’t need anything, but magic always comes with a price.

Who is she to step on tradition?

“Anything – anything you want. My soul – my – my…”

She laughs, cold and empty, as she points a single finger to the kid sitting in the doorframe of the farm. His hair falls in his eyes even as he looks up to her in terror, cheeks hollowed and arms skinny and, yes, he will do.

“Your first born.”

She expects the man to fight, complain, beg some more. She expects nothing at all. Parents are predictable that way, in that they care only when it is easy, and don’t when it accommodates them. She promises water and good crops in the spring, and the man couldn’t care less about his runt of a son. Parents are predictable that way.

The man’s hold is tight on the child’s shoulder as he shoves him up and then towards her, and the Dark One sees red, crimson, fire. She almost comes back on her words then, burns everything to the ground, farm and barn and man. But a deal is a deal, and so she wraps her long fingers around the boy’s elbow, snaps the fingers of her other hand.

“It will be done,” she tells the man before she disappears, only leaving red smoke in her trail.

 

…

 

The boy’s name is Elric.

She knows, if only because he keeps saying ‘my name is Elric’ every time she calls him ‘boy’. She doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to know anything about him, but he keeps saying it, my name is Elric, and so she can’t not know after a while. His name is Elric, he helps with the chores, and he hates his father.

She stole him.

She saved him.

She doesn’t like the idea – she isn’t the one who saves anymore, she is the executioner, the destroyer. Atlas no more, the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders. But this child – he is good, and hard working, and clever. He spends his days on the roof, patching the castle up now that the Curse is no more. Not once does she hear him complain, and sometimes there is a gleam in his brown eyes – painful and unexpected, reminder of another kind with hair falling in his brown eyes, another kid with stubbornness in his features and bravery in his blood.

She hates him on principal, sometimes.

She can’t help herself.

 

…

 

He is the first, but not the last.

Humans are pathetic that way, ready to give away their first born for a miracle they wait to happen – a life for a gift, for a spell. Sometimes, the Dark One scoffs to herself. And they call her the monster? Please. She is nothing compared to those people, so eager to let their offspring in her deadly grip, always ready to throw their children to the wolves if it means to see another day.

She applauds their priorities.

The second is a young girl named Charlotte, her red hair cropped short on her head, the fire obvious in her eyes. She makes for a good cook – the Dark One isn’t impressed, but it seems to please Elric alright.

Then come another boy, and another, and a girl. The Dark One stops counting, at some point, just opens more doors in the castle and lets them to their tasks. They are scared of her, she can see it in the slight tremor of their bodies, the way they always step back when she approaches. They are scared, and it makes them good – or perhaps they were good all along.

Soon, the castle starts looking like a castle again – ruins no more. It would feel homey, if the Dark One knew what home feels like. It at least has the merit of feeling lived in, muffled laugher coming from the kitchens and soft footsteps upstairs. They are quiet, for the most part, but she hears them whisper at night, when they think she isn’t listening.

She can’t make out the words, but has no doubt they talk about her.

 

…

 

She doesn’t let darkness consume her as much as draws on it.

She draws on it, handfuls of black magic and mouthful of fury. Her skin turns cold, her body turns steel, magic cracking on her fingertips and lashing out around her – a cloud of anger, a storm, a nightmare. The Dark One in all her glory when her fingers wrap around the man’s wrist, so tightly her nails draw blood – the red of it dye his skin crimson and makes him wince. Good. Let him hurt.

“Don’t touch the child,” she tells him.

It is nothing but a whisper, but it could as well be a shout in the silent of the little town. Those who are not scared enough to run away, they stop and stare at her – afraid, for their lives, for his. For their town too – rumours of her devastation running wild in the lands.

The man stares too, but there is defiance in his gaze. Fool.

She slaps him, back of her hand against his cheek, hard enough to cut his lip. He spits some blood then licks the wood, and she sees the wheels turning in his head before he decides to value his life over his stubbornness. When she lets go, he leaves without a word, probably to nurse his ego and a hangover.

She doesn’t spare him a second look when she kneels in front of the child. It is a girl, purple bruise blossoming beneath the cake of mud of her cheeks. Her eyes are bloodshot with tears, and she sports an ugly scar on her forearm, some more bruises on her bare legs.

The Dark One reconsiders her mercy.

She snaps her fingers, twice, for another child to be by her side in mere seconds. The girl looks between the two of them, still afraid but somewhat reassured by the presence of a young face.

“Bring her to the castle. Give her a bath and clothes.”

“Of course.”

They used to finish their sentences with ‘m’lady’ or ‘mistress’. They don’t, anymore, having learnt she hates it – hates those titles, and the others too. Those aren’t her name, but her name doesn’t make sense anymore. Her name no longer fits, and so she remains anonymous, almost.

She doesn’t mind, but she does.

 

…

 

He didn’t know what to expect.

It definitely wasn’t this.

A lad points a rusty sword at him, the weight of it having his arm quiver – the picture painfully familiar, and Killian thought he was past it, once and for all. The past has a way of coming back to taunt you when you least expect it.

He no longer is in the business of killing children.

So he eyes the child, then the castle behind him, then the child once again. Sighs. Wonders, _what have you done this time, Swan_. And perhaps he shouldn’t even be surprised, because it sounds so much like her after all – take in the first stray child she finds, claim him as her own. Dark One or not, Killian knows her. She is a Lost Girl, first and foremost. She is a Lost Girl, before being a princess, a savior, even a mother. She is a Lost Girl, and not even the darkness could erase that, could take that away from her.

It makes him want to smile.

It makes him want to weep.

Instead, Killian braces himself as he lowers his sword and says, “Bring me to her.”

The boy isn’t impressed, not that he should be – he and Henry have been travelling for days on end, barely taking breaks, if only to eat and sleep for a few hours. They look grim and exhausted, clothes grey with dust and dirt. The only reason Henry isn’t with him in that moment, beyond _she is dangerous and you shouldn’t be in her crossfire if something happens_ , is that he all but collapsed on the bed the moment they found an inn.

“She doesn’t receive visitors, only clients. Are you here to make a deal with her?”

Killian chuckles then, he can’t help it. “Aye. Something like that.”

He is led through the castle’s hallways, and meets many a curious gaze along the way. Children, all of them, none older than twelve. Their cheeks are round and their hair shiny, the clothes on their back clean and barely worn. He bites back a smile, try as he might, but it is hard to contain his feelings at the sight of all those children.

They look like murder, too, staring at him with daggers in their eyes. They would kill for her. It is obvious they would – it is, after all, so easy to fall into her orbit, easier still to swear allegiance to her. She has that way about her, the only that screams of the blue blood in her veins – you see her, and you can only wish to be worthy of her, can only be loyal to her.

Killian knows. He’s been there.

 

…

 

She wakes up in a daze, eyes blinking against the unforgiving sun, dagger useless in her grip. She blinks away the light and sits up with a groan on her lips and in every bone of her body. Her mind screams in agony, her magic adjusts painfully. She closes her eyes and only sees darkness but –

But it’s just black.

Not dark.

She opens her eyes with a gasp, and meets Killian’s gaze. There is a worried, yet relieved smile on his lips, like he wants to be happy but doesn’t know how. He makes for opening his mouth, for saying something, but then Henry pushes him out of the way. But then Henry is in her arm, screaming and sobbing his relief, and she can only cling to him, a little needy and a little desperate.

“Hey, kid,” she croaks, voice like parchment.

“I love you, mom,” he replies, breaking on the words.

She holds him tighter, tighter still, until her knuckles turn white around the fabric of his jacket, until her jaw aches with the tears she’s swallowing down. This is over, she thinks, this is over. It isn’t really, of course, she doesn’t kid herself into thinking otherwise – she’ll have to deal with the aftermath of her own mistakes, soon, but for now. For now, she just enjoys the moment.

It is long minutes before Henry lets go, heavy tears drying on his cheeks. He offers her a quivering smile as he stands up and holds his hand out to her.

She stands up, too, before being forced into a tight embrace, warm and familiar and so needed. She lets herself sag against Killian’s chest, lets him hold her up as she presses her nose to his collarbone. He sighs into her hair, breath fanning on top of her head, and she toys with the idea never to let go. She has to, eventually, but she feels safer her – safer, where she was the one to be feared.

The thought jolts her away from him. He looks pained, but understanding flashes through his eyes because – of course it does.

“Care to explain something, love?” he asks, partially to deflect, with a nod to her left.

A flock of children stand a few feet away from them, stare at her with no short amount of awe in their eyes. It startles her for a second, but not as much at them all pouncing on her at the same time, dozen pairs of little chubby arms circling her waist and arms, heads pressed to her stomach and sides and back.

It is overwhelming, to say the least, and she can only hug them back, albeit weakly. They all thank her, voices muffled against the fabric of her dress, and she remembers the abusive parents, neglectful masters, starving children. It doesn’t soften the blow of everything else she did, the killing and the ruining and the destroying, but – but it helps, a little.

She looks up to Killian, now fully grinning at her. “You need to stop doing this,” he tells her simply. A little boy, with curly hair and dirty clothes, begging her to take them all off this island, appears in her mind from distant memories. She smiles, wonders if it is her fate, to save the orphans even when she doesn’t mean to.

So she shakes her head to Killian.

Never, she thinks.


End file.
